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    <title>1. CHAPTER XII</title>
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    <div class="chapter" id="id1032017"><h2>1. CHAPTER XII</h2>


<p id="id1032024"><span id="id113033"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->

Mr. Knightley was to dine with them—rather against the inclination
of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him
in Isabella’s first day.  Emma’s sense of right however had decided it;
and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother,
she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late
disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him
the proper invitation.
</p>

<p id="id1032027"><span id="id113041"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She hoped they might now become friends again.  She thought it
was time to make up.  Making-up indeed would not do.  She certainly
had not been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had. 
Concession must be out of the question; but it was time to appear
to forget that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather
assist the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room
she had one of the children with her—the youngest, a nice little girl
about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield,
and very happy to be danced about in her aunt’s arms.  It did assist;
for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon
led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child
out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. 
Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving
her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness,
she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,
</p>

<p id="id1032014"><span id="id113048"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. 
As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different;
but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”
</p>

<p id="id1032033"><span id="id113062"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men
and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your
dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned,
we might always think alike.”
</p>

<p id="id1032031"><span id="id113076"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being
in the wrong.”
</p>

<p id="id1032052"><span id="id113086"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes,“ said he, smiling—”and reason good.  I was sixteen years
old when you were born.“
</p>

<p id="id1032059"><span id="id113097"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“A material difference then,” she replied—“and no doubt you were
much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does
not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings
a good deal nearer?”
</p>

<p id="id1032067"><span id="id113111"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes—a good deal nearer.”
</p>

<p id="id1032070"><span id="id113120"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right,
if we think differently.”
</p>

<p id="id1032078"><span id="id113130"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experience, and by
not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child.  Come, my dear Emma,
let us be friends, and say no more about it.  Tell your aunt, little Emma,
that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing
old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”
</p>

<p id="id1032081"><span id="id113136"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That’s true,” she cried—“very true.  Little Emma, grow up
a better woman than your aunt.  Be infinitely cleverer and not
half so conceited.  Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I
have done.  As far as good intentions went, we were both right,
and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet
proved wrong.  I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very,
very bitterly disappointed.”
</p>

<p id="id1032072"><span id="id113143"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer.
</p>

<p id="id1032089"><span id="id113152"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with me.”
</p>

<p id="id1032095"><span id="id113161"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John
Knightley made his appearance, and “How d’ye do, George?” and “John,
how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under
a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment
which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing
for the good of the other.
</p>

<p id="id1032098"><span id="id113170"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined
cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his
dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions;
on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys;
their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing—and Emma
only occasionally joining in one or the other.
</p>

<p id="id1032102"><span id="id113176"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
and who was always the greater talker.  As a magistrate, he had
generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least,
some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand
the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear
next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail
of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been
the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. 
The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree,
and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn,
was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his
cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever
left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached
a tone of eagerness.
</p>

<p id="id1032106"><span id="id113182"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying
a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.
</p>

<p id="id1032109"><span id="id113192"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand,
and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one
of her five children—“How long it is, how terribly long since you
were here!  And how tired you must be after your journey!  You must
go to bed early, my dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you
before you go.—You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. 
My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel.”
</p>

<p id="id1032100"><span id="id113198"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did,
that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article
as herself;—and two basins only were ordered.  After a little
more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its
not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say,
with an air of grave reflection,
</p>

<p id="id1032120"><span id="id113208"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn
at South End instead of coming here.  I never had much opinion
of the sea air.”
</p>

<p id="id1032123"><span id="id113218"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir—or we
should not have gone.  He recommended it for all the children,
but particularly for the weakness in little Bella’s throat,—
both sea air and bathing.”
</p>

<p id="id1032135"><span id="id113232"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her
any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced,
though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very
rarely of use to any body.  I am sure it almost killed me once.”
</p>

<p id="id1032144"><span id="id113239"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, “I must
beg you not to talk of the sea.  It makes me envious and miserable;—
I who have never seen it!  South End is prohibited, if you please. 
My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about
Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you.”
</p>

<p id="id1032147"><span id="id113246"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?”
</p>

<p id="id1032151"><span id="id113254"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Why, pretty well; but not quite well.  Poor Perry is bilious,
and he has not time to take care of himself—he tells me he has
not time to take care of himself—which is very sad—but he is
always wanted all round the country.  I suppose there is not a man
in such practice anywhere.  But then there is not so clever a man
any where.”
</p>

<p id="id1032154"><span id="id113261"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? 
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry.  I hope he will be calling soon. 
He will be so pleased to see my little ones.”
</p>

<p id="id1032164"><span id="id113275"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
him about myself of some consequence.  And, my dear, whenever he comes,
you had better let him look at little Bella’s throat.”
</p>

<p id="id1032172"><span id="id113289"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly
any uneasiness about it.  Either bathing has been of the greatest
service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent
embrocation of Mr. Wingfield’s, which we have been applying
at times ever since August.”
</p>

<p id="id1032175"><span id="id113296"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been
of use to her—and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation,
I would have spoken to—
</p>

<p id="id1032156"><span id="id113308"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Emma,
“I have not heard one inquiry after them.”
</p>

<p id="id1032189"><span id="id113318"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of myself—but you
mention them in most of your letters.  I hope they are quite well. 
Good old Mrs. Bates—I will call upon her to-morrow, and take
my children.—They are always so pleased to see my children.—
And that excellent Miss Bates!—such thorough worthy people!—
How are they, sir?”
</p>

<p id="id1032183"><span id="id113325"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole.  But poor Mrs. Bates
had a bad cold about a month ago.”
</p>

<p id="id1032196"><span id="id113336"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“How sorry I am!  But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
this autumn.  Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them
more general or heavy—except when it has been quite an influenza.”
</p>

<p id="id1032207"><span id="id113350"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree
you mention.  Perry says that colds have been very general,
but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. 
Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season.”
</p>

<p id="id1032215"><span id="id113357"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly except—
</p>

<p id="id1032221"><span id="id113366"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always
a sickly season.  Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. 
It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!—
and the air so bad!”
</p>

<p id="id1032229"><span id="id113381"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No, indeed—we are not at all in a bad air.  Our part of London is
very superior to most others!—You must not confound us with London
in general, my dear sir.  The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square
is very different from almost all the rest.  We are so very airy! 
I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;—
there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my
children in:  but we are so remarkably airy!—Mr. Wingfield thinks
the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as
to air.”
</p>

<p id="id1032232"><span id="id113387"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield.  You make the best of it—
but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you
different creatures; you do not look like the same.  Now I cannot say,
that I think you are any of you looking well at present.”
</p>

<p id="id1032240"><span id="id113394"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely
free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were
rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were
a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness
of coming.  I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow;
for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe
he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case.  I trust,
at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,”
turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
</p>

<p id="id1032243"><span id="id113401"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you.  I think Mr. John
Knightley very far from looking well.”
</p>

<p id="id1032194"><span id="id113412"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John
Knightley, hearing his own name.
</p>

<p id="id1032257"><span id="id113422"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you
looking well—but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. 
I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen
Mr. Wingfield before you left home.”
</p>

<p id="id1032265"><span id="id113437"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My dear Isabella,”—exclaimed he hastily—“pray do not concern
yourself about my looks.  Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling
yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse.”
</p>

<p id="id1032273"><span id="id113451"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,”
cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham’s intending to have a bailiff
from Scotland, to look after his new estate.  What will it answer? 
Will not the old prejudice be too strong?”
</p>

<p id="id1032281"><span id="id113458"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced
to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing
worse to hear than Isabella’s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax;
and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general,
she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising.
</p>

<p id="id1032284"><span id="id113468"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John Knightley.—
“It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment
accidentally in town!  What happiness it must be to her good old
grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! 
I always regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot
be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. 
She would be such a delightful companion for Emma.”
</p>

<p id="id1032287"><span id="id113472"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
</p>

<p id="id1032291"><span id="id113478"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another
pretty kind of young person.  You will like Harriet.  Emma could
not have a better companion than Harriet.”
</p>

<p id="id1032300"><span id="id113491"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be
so very accomplished and superior!—and exactly Emma’s age.”
</p>

<p id="id1032308"><span id="id113503"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of
similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening
did not close without a little return of agitation.  The gruel came
and supplied a great deal to be said—much praise and many comments—
undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution,
and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was
never met with tolerable;—but, unfortunately, among the failures
which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore
most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman
hired for the time, who never had been able to understand what she
meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. 
Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able
to get any thing tolerable.  Here was a dangerous opening.
</p>

<p id="id1032293"><span id="id113514"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah!“ said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on
her with tender concern.—The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed,
”Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to
South End.  It does not bear talking of.“  And for a little while
she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination
might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. 
After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with,
</p>

<p id="id1032315"><span id="id113511"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
instead of coming here.”
</p>

<p id="id1032321"><span id="id113527"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did the children
a great deal of good.”
</p>

<p id="id1032328"><span id="id113537"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not
have been to South End.  South End is an unhealthy place. 
Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End.”
</p>

<p id="id1032312"><span id="id113550"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is
quite a mistake, sir.—We all had our health perfectly well there,
never found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield
says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy;
and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands
the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been
there repeatedly.”
</p>

<p id="id1032339"><span id="id113557"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.—
Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best
of all the sea-bathing places.  A fine open sea, he says, and very
pure air.  And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there
quite away from the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. 
You should have consulted Perry.”
</p>

<p id="id1032342"><span id="id113563"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only consider how
great it would have been.—An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”
</p>

<p id="id1032345"><span id="id113575"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much
to chuse between forty miles and an hundred.—Better not move at all,
better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get
into a worse air.  This is just what Perry said.  It seemed to him
a very ill-judged measure.”
</p>

<p id="id1032354"><span id="id113582"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he
had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her
brother-in-law’s breaking out.
</p>

<p id="id1032336"><span id="id113595"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure,
“would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. 
Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do?—
at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another?—I may
be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.—
I want his directions no more than his drugs.”  He paused—
and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness,
“If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children
a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense
or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to
prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”
</p>

<p id="id1032364"><span id="id113602"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition—
“very true.  That’s a consideration indeed.—But John, as to what I
was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning
it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows,
I cannot conceive any difficulty.  I should not attempt it,
if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people,
but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path. . . . 
The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. 
I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we
will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion.”
</p>

<p id="id1032368"><span id="id113609"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on
his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously,
been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;—
but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed
the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother,
and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.
</p>



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